


by the wrath of god

by damnedscribblingwoman



Category: 12th Century CE RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Banter, Bickering, Christmas With Family, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: "Well, what family doesn't have its ups and downs?"A tale of bickering spouses and their bickering children, and the right royal mess they made of everything.
Relationships: Eleanor of Aquitaine/Henry Plantagenet
Comments: 33
Kudos: 71
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	by the wrath of god

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Во гневе Господнем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515742) by [essilt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/essilt/pseuds/essilt), [fandom_History_P_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_History_P_2020/pseuds/fandom_History_P_2020)



> Happy Yuletide, Ceci! Hope you enjoy the story :)
> 
> A big thank you to Prinzenhasserin for beta-reading this.

"In the year of our Lord 1173, Henry, the Young King, guided by the false counsel of wicked men and by the poisonous whispers of the King of the Franks, took up arms against his father, Henry FitzEmpress, King of England. Seeing this, Queen Eleanor, driven by a jealous rage against the king's mistress, she whom the poets have named the Rose of the World, urged her younger sons to throw in their lot with their faithless brother. And so it was that Richard and Geoffrey joined Henry the son in waging war against Henry the father. And the heavens surely wept to see it, for what could be more contrary to nature than for sons to so harass their sire? 

But though ambition and spirit might be forgivable sins in princes, the very soul revolts against the unnatural, unwomanly acts of this queen who turned against her king, this wife who left her husband, this mother who poisoned her offspring against their father. 

While the king was engaged in this conflict not of his making, his deceitful wife attempted to join her rebellious sons and seek refuge in the court of the French king. Anticipating this latest treachery, King Henry dispatched men to intercept her on her journey. This they did, and the errant queen was put under arrest and sent to the king's castle in Rouen." - Roger of Hoveden, _Gesta Henrici II et Gesta Regis Ricardi_

* * *

**Rouen, May 1173**

Ermengarde pulled herself up, her claws digging into Eleanor's arms. The queen flinched as the dragon tried to settle more comfortably across her back, but did not complain, not even when the daemon's tail tightened uncomfortably around her waist, spikes puncturing fabric to scratch skin. Ermengarde was restless and jittery, and Eleanor couldn't blame her. So was she.

The courtyard below was in chaos. Henry had ridden in half an hour before at the head of his army, and everything was confusion below: stable hands running around, squires shouting orders or taking orders or leading their masters' horses away; servants ducking in and out of doorways carrying linen or food or refreshments for the knights of her husband's household. 

Of the king himself there was no sign. Eleanor had caught sight of him on his arrival, so he must be somewhere in the castle, prowling just out of sight, deliberately keeping her waiting. It was as petty as it was pointless. If he meant to unsettle her by it, he need not have bothered. She was his prisoner, that was unsettling enough. Anything more simply smacked of trying too hard. 

The room behind her was quiet, in stark counterpoint to the cacophony outside. It was a far cry from the chambers Eleanor had used during her last stay at Rouen, but it was hardly the dark dungeon she had no doubt many had suggested for her confinement. It was a large, handsome apartment, with colourful tapestries on the walls and expensive rugs on the floor. She had chosen some of them herself. One she'd brought with her from Bordeaux, half a lifetime ago. Another one had travelled with her all the way from the Holy Land. 

All in all, it was a very lavish cage. 

Her ladies sat by the fire, busying themselves with needlework. There was precious little else to occupy their time, or hers.

The daemons were the first ones to hear the king's approach. Flit, Lady Hawisa's swan, puffed his chest and beat his wings before settling back down next to his mistress, while Ranulf, Philippa's mastiff, growled briefly at the door before moving to sit on her other side. Only Ermengarde did not move. She was holding on so tight that Eleanor could feel warmth spreading on her shoulder where the dragon's claws had broken the skin.

"Well, isn't this cosy?" Henry marched into the room liked he marched everywhere else — heavy steps and a booming voice and a smile that was all teeth. "Wife, you look well. Captivity suits you."

Eleanor turned away from the window and smiled at her husband, sweet and congenial. 

"And war suits you." Behind Henry, Maude, his daemon, stalked in circles in front of the door, angrily lashing her tail. There was a scar above her left eye that hadn't been there when Eleanor had last seen her. No doubt the handiwork of yet another fool who'd thought the easiest way to kill a king was to take out his daemon. Battlefields across England and France were littered with the broken bodies of men Maude had proved wrong on that score. "You look ten years younger," Eleanor added. "Wine?" 

Ermengarde hissed and Maude growled in response, a rumbling deep in her throat, but Henry and Eleanor smiled on. 

"Most kind. Hemlock?" Henry asked, taking the offered cup.

"That'd be telling. And I know how very fond you are of surprises."

"You always did spoil me." He looked at her over the rim of the cup, a dangerous glint in his eye. "A fine vintage. Breton?"

"Poitevin."

"Ah, yes." Henry meandered distractedly about the room, cup in hand. He'd never been able to abide stillness. "So. What shall we talk about? Politics? Religion? How do you like Normandy this time of year? Read anything interesting lately?"

"We could always discuss the weather. It's been an uncommonly rainy spring."

"Uncommonly so," Henry agreed. "Makes sleeping outside a downright muddy affair."

"How very kind of you to keep me safely inside, then."

The cup shattered loudly against the wall, making Eleanor's ladies jump and their daemons scurry for cover and causing Ermengarde to spread her wings to their full span and hiss furiously, smoke rising from her nostrils. Maude's answering roar was deafening in the enclosed space, but Angevin tempers lacked the power to impress Eleanor. They'd been her constant companions for twenty years.

"Something on your mind, husband?" she asked dryly.

"Leave us!" he ordered Eleanor's ladies. They looked to her first, and Eleanor loved them for it. She nodded her assent and only then did they rise to their feet and left the room. Henry glared. "That's loyalty right there and you could stand to learn something from it," he said accusingly, pointing at the closed door.

"Loyalty?" Ermengarde had finally eased her deathly grip on her. Now that the waiting was over, all that was left was the soothing familiarity of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry FitzEmpress yelling at each other across a room. "Loyalty has never been one of your virtues, Henry, and I puzzle to think why you'd believe it one of mine."

"You turned those boys against me."

"You did that yourself. Do not blame me for your failings."

Maude got too close and Ermengarde launched herself off of Eleanor with a warning growl, landing heavily on the back of a chair.

"You sent them to Louis," Henry shouted, furiously pacing around the room. "You did that." 

"You think I gave them a map to Paris and pushed them out the door?"

"You might as well have done. Hal doesn't have the brains for something like this, and Richard and Geoffrey are but boys. This has your name written all over it."

"I can't tell if you mean to insult them or flatter me."

"Laugh it up, lady love." Harry stopped across the table from her. "But this time you've grossly miscalculated."

"Have I?"

"You have. You should have stayed in Poitiers. You're mine now, and I don't plan to let you go. Let's see how long our little rebels last without their mama plotting and scheming and whispering treason in their ear."

The room had gone quiet around them. Even Maude and Ermengarde had stopped snapping at each other.

"Have me, then," Eleanor said. "See how long you keep me." Brave, stupid words. "You haven't won this war yet, husband."

"You think I'll lose? Against three puppies with no strategy and less sense?"

"They won't always be puppies." 

"Maybe not. But they're puppies now and it's high time I brought them to heel. I bid you a good day, wife."

* * *

**Rouen, October 1174**

Eleanor stood by the open window, face turned up to feel the autumn sun on her skin. Ermengarde's large form briefly blocked the light as she flew past, and envy burned hot and bright in Eleanor's chest. She'd trade a kingdom for wings of her own. 

Feeling herself watched, she turned to find Henry leaning against the door frame, Maude by his side. Eleanor hadn't even known he was in the castle. He must have arrived ahead of his army.

"Come to gloat?" she asked. There was a heavy thud behind her as Ermengarde landed on the windowsill.

"I wanted to see your face when you got the news. I see I'm too late."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to bear the disappointment." Rearranging her skirts, Eleanor sat down on her usual chair, her back straight, her head held high. The weight of two crowns had given her impeccable posture, if nothing else. "So you've won your war." It wasn't a question.

"Did you doubt it?" Henry's movements were languid and easy, self-satisfaction wrapped around him like a mantle. She'd found his smugness charming, once upon a time. She found it somewhat less charming now.

"The prodigal sons have returned to the fold." The back of her chair jerked under Ermengarde's weight. "I'm sure it was a lovely family reunion. I'm sorry to have missed it."

"And I am sorry you missed it. It was a moving spectacle. There were heartfelt apologies and pretty speeches and a swift return to family harmony. The bishop looked positively glowing at the sight of such promises of filial devotion. I was almost moved to tears."

"How positively delightful. And what's to become of me, husband, now that all is peace and contentment and family harmony?"

Dragging a chair across the room, Henry sat down next to her, legs outstretched in front of him, fingers laced over his chest. Maude stretched and yawned like an overgrown house cat before plopping herself down at his feet. 

"Why, wife," he said with a big, bright smile, "do you have complaints about my hospitality?"

"Not at all. These are some very comfortable shackles."

"Do I keep you in chains? Do I feed you scraps?"

"You can't keep me locked up forever."

Henry's smile turned dangerous. "Can't I?"

"The church won't allow it. Our boys won't allow it."

He laughed, crossing his legs at the ankle. "You think your little blossoms will stand by you now that I've won? They couldn't make their oaths fast enough at Montlouis."

Ermengarde's tail flicked and swished, the only visible signs of the ice spreading through Eleanor's veins. "I think," she said slowly, "that Hal bent the knee to you because he's weak, and that Geoffrey bent the knee to you because he's clever. How long your promises and their oaths will keep them by your side remains to be seen."

"You don't think much of your children. And what about Richard? What will your little lamb do now that his dear maman is no longer of use to him?"

Eleanor regretted nothing — not her foolish recklessness, not her failed schemes — nothing but not having driven a dagger into Henry's heart when she'd had the chance. Kings slept just like everyone else.

"Richard will do what he needs to do to get what's his, and you forget that at your peril, my lord king."

"It stings, doesn't it?" Henry asked, his smile cold and sharp, like the edge of a knife. "That he'd put his own selfish interests above you?"

"I do not doubt that he loves me." It sounded defensive to her own ears.

"You did not doubt that I loved you, either. I did not doubt that you loved me. And perhaps we did. Memory fails. Much like love, it turns out. It's a funny, fickle thing, isn't it?"

Count Henry and his countess. How young they'd been. How blindingly optimistic. They'd conquer the world; they'd rule over an empire. Side by side. Hand in hand. What fools they'd been. What a fool she'd been.

"Putting my own selfish interests above you," she said. "Is that what you think I did?"

"Didn't you?"

Yes. But then, so had he. More times than she could count, in more ways than she cared to remember. 

"Where's your little mouse, Henry?"

"Leave her out of this. This is not about her."

"No? Then let's make it about her. You're bitter I didn't play the meek, dutiful wife to your satisfaction? How do you think you've fared as a husband?"

"I've given you children. I've given you a crown."

"So did Louis and I left him easily enough."

Henry was out of his chair so quickly even Maude was startled. "Not this time, wife." He leaned over her, his hands gripping the arms of her chair, his breath warm on her face. Behind her, Ermengarde hissed. "You're just as stuck with me as I am with you. We're chained together. The only difference is I can walk out of this room and you cannot. Enjoy your prison, Eleanor."

And with that he let go and stalked away. He was almost at the door when Eleanor found her voice. 

"A rose in bloom might be a beautiful thing, my lord husband." The trick wasn't to draw blood. The trick was to plunge the knife just right to make it hurt. "But cut the stem and it will wilt and die as easily as any weed. More so, in fact." Eleanor rose to her feet. "You think me helpless? You're not that naive. How much mischief do you think I can get up to from behind a closed door?"

"I hope you have fond memories of your beloved Aquitaine," he said, his aim as good as hers. His aim better than hers. "For you'll never set foot on it again."

* * *

**Chinon, December 1174**

The air was icy cold on Eleanor's skin as she stepped out of the litter, but she paid it no mind. She relished the cold, in fact. The world was painted white and the sun glittered off the snow, giving everything a soft, bright glow.

Ermengarde flew high above, yipping happily, her shadow monstrously large on the ground, scaring off chickens and sheep and peasants. It was just an illusion, of course. Nothing but a trick of light and distance, like children projecting monsters on walls with nothing but their hands and a candle. If Ermengarde really were that large, Eleanor would be no man's prisoner. Still, the dragon was enjoying herself immensely.

"Your grace." Sir Baldwin of Trie bowed low. The castellan of Chinon Castle was a very well-mannered jailer. 

"Sir Baldwin." Eleanor smiled. After nearly a year locked away in Rouen, the journey down from Normandy had proved invigorating. She was at peace with all the world, even with her husband's flunkies. Not even the knowledge that all too soon she'd be exchanging a Norman cage for an English one could dampen her spirits. "How very kind of you to come out to receive me. Has the king arrived yet? Or my sons?"

"They're expected at any moment, ma'am."

The castellan hurried to follow her inside, ducking with a startled yelp when Ermengarde flew over his head, her hind legs just missing him. The white ermine that was his daemon jumped in fright and climbed up his leg, seeking refuge in his pocket, but succeeding only in hiding her head while the rest of her body poked out, an easy, obvious target should Eleanor decide she was feeling spiteful or Ermengarde decide she was feeling peckish. 

Chinon was in full Christmas mode. The halls were decked in red and green — holly and mistletoe, and pretty red bows tied around tall beeswax candles. The huge pine tree in the main hall was positively weighed down by candles, and if Eleanor meant to set fire to the castle, that's where she'd start. Even the chambers prepared for her use had been Christmased past all reasonableness, as if Sir Baldwin was determined to ensure that, seeing as it was the season of peace and harmony, peace and harmony would be had by all, even if he had to strip all the evergreen trees from Tours to Angers to achieve it.

Eleanor's ladies had just finished removing the worst of this festive excess when the familiar sound of bickering voices reached her ears.

"And you can stop barking at me about it, Richard, because it's not as if I had any choice in the matter." 

"Not letting your forces get cornered in that ridiculous fashion, that's a choice."

"Your forces didn't exactly cover themselves in glory, little brother."

"We had Poitou. We had it. Henry's army could not get a foothold there. If I did not have to ride north to meet you—"

"Well, that's war, isn't it? You win some, you lose some. What's one to do?"

Matilda, Hal's daemon, flew in ahead of the rest of them and perched herself atop a bough of holly, immediately starting to groom her feathers. The murderous glare Richard shot Hal as they walked in was as familiar as the way Geoffrey rolled his eyes behind his brothers' backs.

"Mother." Hal, her beautiful golden boy, smiled brightly and leaned over her chair, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, darling." She glanced past him at Geoffrey, who bowed his head with a courtier's grace. "Geoffrey, you look taller. And Richard, don't I get a kiss?"

Richard stood by the door, Aenor by his side. His face was as inscrutable as his daemon's and for a moment he did not move but simply stared at her, serious and still. And then he crossed the room and fell to one knee at her feet, head bowed. 

"I'm sorry, maman," he said in Occitan, his voice deeper than it had been only a year ago when she'd sent him off to war. 

Tilting his face up with her hands, Eleanor kissed his forehead. "Never mind, my love," she said in the same language. "There will be other wars."

"Has Father arrived yet?" Hal asked, sprawled over an armchair by the fire.

"Eager to crawl some more?" Richard asked, rising to his feet.

"We've hardly done _that_."

"I don't know how you can be so calm about this." Richard paced when he was agitated, which was often. "It's your castles he's giving that runt."

"Now, now, dear," Eleanor said, suppressing a smile, "that's no way to talk about your brother."

"On that subject," Hal said. "I've been thinking—"

"I hope the experience didn't prove too taxing."

"John is but a child," he continued, ignoring Richard. "What is he? Five?"

"Seven," Geoffrey supplied.

"Seven. Practically an infant. And childhood is fraught with peril. One good bout of fever and I may no longer have a problem."

Anyone inclined to suspect the look of disgust on Richard's face somehow connected to Hal's unchristian turn of mind would have been disappointed by his next words. 

"That's your strategy? Hope and a prayer?" He looked to Geoffrey and Eleanor before pointing exasperatedly at his older brother. " _That_ wears a crown."

"Envy is a sin, brother dearest."

"So is stupidity."

"I bow to your superior knowledge of scripture." Grabbing an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table, Hal took a bite out of it before adding, "Anyway, Geoffrey, agrees with me, don't you Geoff?" 

"Naturally," Geoffrey said, who'd agree with whomever seemed to be of most use to him at any given moment and who'd live to dance on all their graves if they weren't careful. Melusine, his daemon, had somehow got Aenor to move away from the best spot in front of the fire (despite the lion being several time the fox's size) and sat watching them with a smug, sly grin.

"There's no point in picking another fight when things may well resolve themselves," Hal said with the casual nonchalance of one who'd never had to deal with the consequences of anything — not of his childish misdeeds, not of his mountings debts, not of his failed rebellion. He wasn't the one about to be shipped off to captivity in England. She and Henry truly had spoiled these boys. "And Father behaved very handsomely in victory," he continued without a hint of irony. "We'll receive extra revenues from our lands and we all got new residences in the bargain."

"Indeed," Geoffrey agreed. "Some very undefended and indefensible residences."

"It's almost as if your father doesn't trust you."

Tension rippled across the room like a wave at the king's appearance. Hal sat up straight, Richard's scowl deepened, and though Geoffrey's expression did not change, Melusine lowered herself to the ground, curling her fluffy tail around herself. 

Ermengarde stayed where she was, hanging by her tail from a wooden beam above their heads, but Aenor growled at Maude, deep and low, moving to stand in front of Eleanor's chair. 

"How are my little conspirators doing this fine day?" Henry asked, his tone at once affectionate and mocking. "Am I to find a new plot in my Christmas stocking?"

"Don't be a child, Henry," Eleanor said. "You'll have to wait and see, just like everyone else."

"You'll like what I got you, wife." He crossed the room, ignoring the deep rumbling in Aenor's throat, and leaned over Eleanor, kissing her cheek.

"A new wimple? A new set of chains? Henry, you shouldn't have." 

Aenor's growl deepened, her ears flat against her head, her lips pulled back over her fangs. Maude yawned, paying the other lion no more attention than Henry did. Much like him, she was bigger and older and disinclined to be disturbed by the grumbling of kittens.

"A nice fur cloak to keep you warm," Henry said with a smile. "England is cold this time of year."

"How kind of you to see to my comfort."

"Isn't it just?" He turned to survey his children. "Well, isn't this nice? The whole family together at Christmas. I wanted to have Johnny cross the Channel to join us, but his nurse seemed to think such a journey at this time of year a barbaric form of torture devised to put little children into early graves."

"Doubtless an overabundance of caution," Hal said in the tone of one with opinions on the pesky foresight of meddlesome nurses.

"Doubtless so," Henry agreed. "Now, I expect all you boys to be on your best behaviour during the Christmas festivities. Some of our most powerful vassals and neighbours are expected and I want to put all this rebellion nonsense to rest." 

"Am I expected to be on my best behaviour as well?" Eleanor asked sweetly. Above her, Ermengarde let go of the beam and unfurled her wings to soften her fall, landing heavily on the back of Eleanor's chair, claws digging into wood. 

"I'm certain you will be," Henry said, his smile as pleasant and dangerous as Eleanor's. Next to him, Maude stared up at Ermengarde, the rumbling in her throat building to a growl.

"Are you?"

"One last chance to play the queen, dressed up in all your finery with a golden crown on your head? You'll eat it up."

"You think it's the trappings of power I'll feel deprived of?"

"Enjoy the trappings, wife. You'll miss them."

Ermengarde flicked her tail, striking the ground at Henry's feet, and Maude lunged at it, claws loud and shrill on the stone floor when she missed. Ermengarde flared her wings as Aenor's loud roar filled the room, but before Aenor could launch herself at Maude, or Maude and Ermengarde at each other, Matilda swooped down, drawing the attention of the lot of them. The hawk landed on Hal's arm, tilting her head to regard them with a quizzical look.

"Is Sir Baldwin overseeing the festivities?" Hal asked. From anyone else it might have been an attempt to diffuse the tension, and a rather obvious one at that, but Hal took a great, unparallelled interest in all matters involving merry-making and money-spending. If kingship were about no more than organising banquets and tournaments, he'd become the most successful king in Christendom. 

"What?" Henry's gaze flickered away from Eleanor. "Yes, of course. I dare say he is."

"What's been arranged for the entertainment of our guests?"

"What— I don't know, boy. Minstrels, jugglers, the usual."

The look of naked disgust on Hal's face was matched only by Richard's, though it was doubtful whether the feeling sprung from one common origin. Geoffrey turned his face towards the window, the better to hide his amused smirk. 

"I'm sure Sir Baldwin's efforts are…" Hal paused, searching for a word. "Adequate," he finally settled on. "But there's nothing in life that can't be improved on. I shall see to it directly. Mother. Father."

He smiled and bowed and left the room. No one spoke for several moments. Even the daemons had gone quiet.

"I marvel at the fact his daemon settled as a hawk," Henry finally said. "I always thought it'd be something delicate and decorative, like a robin or a starling."

"Or a peacock," Geoffrey said, and Richard snorted. 

Eleanor smiled, saying nothing. Even she had felt tempted at times to think him a changeling, this sunny, flighty son of hers, so different from all the other clever, prickly, difficult blossoms in her garden. But Hal's lazy good humour hid claws just as sharp as his brothers', and just as ruthless a streak. The revolt that had started all this had been the culmination of many things — power struggles and territorial disputes, petty grudges and yes, even Rosamund Clifford, but it had started with a boy with a crown who'd decided he wanted more than he'd been given. She and Henry had birthed no songbird. How could they, being who they were? It was all predators as far as the eye could see.

* * *

When Eleanor was a girl in her father's court in Poitiers, plays were performed at Christmas. She and her sister used to hide to watch the actors practise their lines and change into their costumes, and young Eleanor had marvelled at these strangers who made a living pretending to be other people. A peasant in a stole became a bishop; a washerwoman in a paper crown a queen. Eleanor had wondered what it must be like, to live life in such a way, always putting on masks, always performing for an audience. 

She no longer had to wonder. All life was performance. That's what decades spent as Queen of France and Queen of England and Duchess of Aquitaine had taught her. 

The great hall of Chinon Castle was crowded with lords and ladies come to join the celebrations, pay their respects, or gawk at this persecuted king and his conniving queen and their duplicitous offspring. If the latter, they were disappointed. All life was performance and none of them — not Henry, not Richard, not Eleanor herself — ever appeared so much to advantage as when before an audience. They were, for all the world to see, doting parents, loving sons, a happy couple. 

Eleanor charmed and dazzled, resplendent in her embroidered gown and golden crown. Navigating a royal court was like swimming in shark-infested waters; courtiers could smell blood in the water. The trick was never to show weakness. Maybe she was beat this time, but it did not make her powerless and it did not make her harmless. The trappings of power might not be quite as effective or satisfying as actual power, but they could still be yielded to great effect by an expert hand, and Eleanor's was the deftest in Christendom. She was Queen of England, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right, and if she played her cards right she'd be a lightening rod for every malcontent in her husband's precious empire. Even if Henry locked her up in a tower and threw away the key. Possibly specially then. Empress Matilda had achieved more with less. 

And if nothing else, being a constant thorn in Henry's side might just prove satisfying enough.

After all the carolling was done and even Sir Baldwin could not take any more cheer and joy and goodwill towards men, Eleanor retired to her chambers. She was exhausted. It'd been an exhausting day, preceded by an exhausting year, and on the far side of Christmas there was nothing to look forward to but the cold, empty promise of an English jail. 

Her maid Amaria stood behind her, brushing her hair, when Maude trotted in, closely followed by Henry. Ermengarde hissed, a half-hearted thing that was half loathing, half habit. 

"Lost you way?" Eleanor asked, turning her head to glance at Henry over her shoulder. 

"Can't a man visit his wife's room late at night?"

"A man can if a man wishes to be gelded."

Henry chuckled, taking the brush from Amaria. "Don't be a sore loser, Eleanor," he said, adding "Leave us," to the maid. 

Henry's hands on her hair were steady and familiar as he brushed her hair with practised, confident strokes. Eleanor had found it soothing, once upon a time. A different Eleanor living in a different world. 

"Tell me, wife, was it worth it?" he asked, a voice like silk. "To lose all this in an ill-conceived gamble?" Eleanor wasn't sure if he meant her position at court or her children around her or this right here.

"Just because I lost doesn't mean it was ill-conceived."

"Indeed." He put down the brush and gathered her hair, moving it over her shoulder and leaning down to press a kiss to her neck, a mocking parody of all the times he'd done it and meant it. "That's not why it was ill-conceived," he added, lips ghosting over her ear. "You sided with Louis against me. Was that clever?"

Eleanor stood up, pulling away from him, her hair falling down her back. The floor was cold under her bare feet and her chemise was too thin in the cold night air, but Eleanor ignored the cold like she ignored all the things she had no use for, like nightmares and church sermons and memories of a better time. 

"Careful, Henry. I could almost think you jealous." He snorted in a way that reminded her so much of Richard that her chest ached. "What's the point of dissecting it all now? I gambled and I lost. If you want to crow, come back in the morning. You can gloat while we open the presents. You'll enjoy that. Let it be my parting gift to you."

"Generous, but I think I'll stay right here. Explain this to me, because I've been racking my brain for months, trying to understand. What was it that I did that was so terrible that you'd turn against me like this? That you'd turn our sons against me?" 

"Oh, enough." Ermengarde growled, lashing her tail against the bed covers. "I did not lift a finger to turn those boys against you. You did a fine job of that yourself."

"Did I beat you up? Did I treat you badly?" Henry stalked towards her and Eleanor held her ground.

"You think you were a model husband?"

"I think Europe is full of worse ones whose wives don't choose to stab them in the back." 

"That's their mistake."

He grabbed her arm in a grip so tight she gasped.

"Why?" he all but growled, his face too close to hers. "I want to know why."

The stab of fear that shot through her immediately turned to hot-white anger, and Eleanor pushed him off. 

"You want a list?" The Angevins weren't the only ones with a temper. "You let Ramon keep Toulouse. Those are my lands!" 

Henry stared at her incredulously. Eleanor's claim to Toulouse rested on her grandmother Philippa having been Count Guilhem IV's only child. The county should have gone to Philippa on Guilhem's death, and eventually to Eleanor, but Philippa had been passed over for her uncle Ramon. Throughout the years, both Louis and Henry had pressed Eleanor's claim to those lands, until Henry had decided there was no point and less profit in trying to beat the county into submission when he could just make nice with Ramon's heir and namesake instead. The Counts of Toulouse were vassals of the Dukes of Aquitaine anyway, and Henry had other wars to fight. 

"You think I like that Ramon kept it?" Henry shouted at last. 

"And you made him do homage to Hal for them."

"He's your son."

"He's your heir!" The look of stunned shock on Henry's face only made her angrier. "My vassals do not bow to the English crown, my lord king. Not now, not ever." 

"This is what this is all about? Real estate?"

"What did you think? Did you believe the troubadour tales about the wrath of scorned women? I've raised enough of your bastards not to have illusions about your fidelity, husband."

"You've raised more of my bastards than you know, _wife_."

"You wouldn't dare annul me."

"Wouldn't I?"

"And repeat Louis's mistakes? You'd lose the Aquitaine."

"I have an army that says different."

"You think our sons would stand idly by while you cast me aside and them in the bargain? Your puppies would turn hellhounds in the blink of an eye. You'd have a civil war on your hands that would make the Anarchy look like a temper tantrum."

"You make a lot of threats for a woman with both hands tied behind her back."

"I don't need my hands to make your life hell. Try to get our marriage annulled and you'll never know a moment's peace for as long as I live."

"Never and as long as you live are two very different things."

There was a hysterical edge to Eleanor's laughter. "Oh, is that how it will be? Will no one rid you of your troublesome wife? Careful, husband. Before you know it you'll find yourself forced to make pilgrimages to my grave."

Henry looked as if she'd slapped him, and if Eleanor listened carefully she could almost hear the slow drip drip drip of blood on the bedroom floor. Victory tasted bitter in her mouth. 

Eleanor had hated Thomas Becket almost as much as she hated Rosamund — and for much the same reasons — and she'd laughed a little when worldly Thomas had discovered he'd much rather fall to his knees before God Almighty than before Henry of England. It had stung Henry in a way that amused her. But even she hadn't laughed at the events in Canterbury. She wasn't laughing now, either.

Henry's men had caught up with Thomas inside the cathedral. The monks had tried hard to defend their archbishop, and Margery, his daemon, had almost ripped out William de Tracy's throat before being flung at a wall. Dazed but otherwise unharmed, the wildcat rolled to her feet and prepared to pounce, but never finished the movement. Glittering dust rose through the air as blood spread across the flagstones of Canterbury Cathedral. 

It was the one fit of temper Henry could never take back. It was the one he'd regret till his dying day.

Turning away from him, Eleanor sank into a chair by the fire, exhausted and heartsick and chilled down to the bone. After a moment, Henry followed.

"Not that, Eleanor," he said, taking the chair next to hers. "Never that."

"No," Eleanor said without looking at him. "You'll just keep me locked up in a tower, far away from the world." 

"Wouldn't you, in my place?"

Very likely, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow, nor any easier to bear. 

Snow had started to fall outside. There was a draft in the room from the open window, but it was warm enough close to the fire that Eleanor barely noticed. 

"No annulment," she said. 

"Chained together, huh?"

"Those were your words."

"Even if it means you'll be locked up for the rest of your life?"

"Even if it means I'll be locked up for the rest of yours."

Henry nodded pensively. "Plan to outlive me, do you?"

"I have no doubt I will."

"I'm younger."

"I'm tougher. Women have to be."

He glanced at her, his smile very much like Hal's. "My lady mother always said so."

No doubt and no wonder. Empress Matilda had had to be. 

Silence fell between them, a comfortable, complicated thing filled with the echoes of a life shared, of wars public and private, of the ghosts of the people they'd loved and the people they'd lost, and of the people they'd once been. 

Maude jumped on the bed and lay down next to Ermengarde. The dragon let her. It was past midnight, Christmas Day, 1174. 

* * *

"Henry FitzEmpress died at Chinon on the sixth day of the month of July, in the year of grace 1189. He was succeeded by his son Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, who on becoming king immediately dispatched William Marshal to England with orders for his mother's release. 

Restored to her rightful place as the highest lady in the land, Queen Eleanor ruled the kingdom in her son's absence and travelled the width and breadth of the realm implementing his will and her own. Such documents as bore her name she signed as Eleanor, by the grace of God, Queen of England." Roger of Hoveden, _Gesta Henrici II et Gesta Regis Ricardi_

* * *

Eleanor's steps echoed in the quiet cloisters. Nothing stirred in the peaceful garden, no sound reached her from the surrounding buildings. There wasn't another soul in sight. It was as if Fontevraud itself was holding its breath. 

On reaching the chapel, she motioned for her ladies to stop and walked in alone, Ermengarde a comforting weight across her back and shoulders. The chapel was dark apart from the dim, flickering light of half a dozen candles that cast long shadows on the walls, on the floors, on her husband's tomb. 

The effigy had been competently carved, but the likeness fell short: Henry's features, but none of his intensity, none of his manic energy, none of his captivating, maddening, aggravating charisma. 

Ermengarde let out a low, mournful sigh and tightened her tail around Eleanor's waist, resting her head on the curve of her neck. 

"I win," Eleanor said softly, though it did not feel like winning. She wasn't sure what it felt like. 

Thirty seven years, eight children, and far too many wars. Henry had dug his claws into her so deeply even death could not dislodge him. It was one more thing to resent him for, and wasn't that fitting? Chained together indeed.

They'd spent years, wasted years, wasted decades fighting each other, and all they'd ever managed was to wrap themselves around each other so tightly that they'd never have managed to get rid of the other without cutting out parts of themselves in the process. Even now.

And perhaps it was just as well. For the truth of it was that Eleanor treasured her ghosts. All of them, even him, obstinate, overbearing, difficult man that he was. That he'd been.

"We've had quite a life, haven't we, Henry?"

She wasn't done living hers. Not even close. She was just getting started.

Steps sounded behind her, followed by the voice of her captain of the guard. "Your grace, the abbess requests your presence. The king has sent a messenger." 

"I'll be there in a moment," she said without turning. Once the steps receded, she touched her fingers to her lips and pressed them against the cold, hard stone. "Farewell, husband. May we meet again in a better world."

The sun was low on the horizon when Eleanor stepped back out onto the cloisters. The air smelled sweet, of lavender and lilacs, and honey cakes from the nearby kitchens. Voices could be heard in the distance and somewhere out of sight a woman laughed, a light, bright, happy sound that brought a smile to Eleanor's lips. 

On the morrow they'd resume the journey to Poitiers. She was going home.


End file.
